


Just You and Me

by islandgirl_246



Series: Just You and Me [18]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Revenge, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 23:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12221427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandgirl_246/pseuds/islandgirl_246
Summary: Max surveyed the hit man. He wondered if the man was responsible for the murder on Long Island, but he knew better than to ask. He’d consider what that could mean later.“Mr. Maximilian, my name is Harris . . .“I thought it was Henry Steel?” Max asked quickly.“I never give my real name to anyone but my employer, Mr. Maximilian,” the man said slowly. “Now, shall we get down to business?”





	Just You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> We’ve reached the end. Hope you enjoy the conclusion. 
> 
> PS: I made an edit to part 17 to remove an inconsistency. The edit won’t affect this update, but I know there are some who would want to reread before getting into this. – Thanks to Red1999 for letting me know I had messed up a paragraph.
> 
> *This work accidentally posted twice when I was uploading. I removed the latter one*

“We’ve found a suitable decorator,” the man on the other end of the line alerted Max. “Name is _Henderson_. He comes highly recommended.”

Based on the stressing of the name, he knew the hit man’s name would begin with H, but he was sure not to be named Henderson and would probably use another name when they met – though use of the same first letter was a definite.

“Have you looked into his background?” Max asked Alistair, his go to for these kinds of details. “Are his skills of the highest quality? The _remodelling_ I need must be precise.”

The phrasing in these kinds of transactions was a delicate matter. One never knew who could be listening.

“Yes. He has an impressive reputation. I’ve sent the information through our mutual friend. He will contact you soon to make arrangements to begin preparations for the job,” the fixer told his still billionaire boss. “We’ll talk soon.”

The man hung up and Max resumed his pacing. The contract killer was supposed to contact him here for further instructions. His preliminary information indicated Peter and Stiles had booked tickets for Beacon Hills. It would be the perfect locale for what he had in mind.

He’d had two months to stew on this. At first he’d wanted them both dead. Then he’d thought about it; about what an opportunity this would be to watch Stiles Stilinski fall apart. So Peter would die first. Then he would systematically target each of the “friends” and “family” individually, like he’d done before. He’d spend the next year making sure Stiles understood that this was all his doing; that his choice had wrought this.

He’d start with the fiancé and then watch them all fall. Asher Maximilian did not know the meaning of defeat.

The residence was less opulent than he was used to, but creature comforts were of less importance now than fixing this mess. He’d been able to get out of Boston. It really hadn’t been that much of a hassle, especially with his resources, a few strategically placed phone calls and his lawyer working all the channels.

Richard was his chief counsel, but right now he was under close FBI surveillance. So Richard had sent him their trusted fixer Alistair Netzger. Alistair was the man he called when he had a problem that needed to be dealt with. Max had used him before. The man could procure anything – given enough time. It was he Max relied on now to secure his contractor, the mysterious Mr. H.

He called out to one of the servants and ordered a drink. He deserved it.

++++++

Peter and Stiles had decided to head to Beacon Hills for an extended period, a week after Boyd went off for a brief holiday. Boyd would spend a week with Erica, then meet them back in Beacon Hills, where his security team would take up watch over his client and friend.

After the furore over the past few months, things were looking more stable, especially for Hale & Hale; but none of them allowed themselves to be lulled into thinking it was over.

Erica still had guilt and stress issues stemming from her manipulated “vacation” with Max. That the man had used her like that still made Stiles sick to his stomach. Each of his friends were picking up the pieces of their lives “after Max”; and Hale & Hale and the Argents were working more jointly now than ever before. The word merger had already been whispered.

When the engaged couple arrived in Beacon Hills, John felt he could breathe again. He was a little less worried knowing his son and his son’s fiancé were near, and his own deputies were keeping an eye out. Until that madman had been found, he didn’t think he could fully relax.

++++++

Boyd called each day to check in, and in the second week of February, he alerted his boss that he would be extending his holiday for another week.

“What’s going on? I thought you and Erica were back a day ago?”

“Erica’s back. I dropped her safely at her apartment, but I have a few personal things I need to take care of. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe in Beacon Hills. My guys won’t leave your side. I’ll see you guys in a few days.”

Boyd hung up before Stiles could ask more questions.

The bodyguard dialled one more number.

“Where?” he asked when a man answered, and got the address he needed.

++++++

Max waited a day before he decided to call Alistair back _._ This was so unlike him. He’d never had to follow up on anything Alistair ever committed to. Everyone around him knew he could not abide incompetent people, and Alistair was a stickler for efficient operation. His reputation relied on it.

_Where the hell was this contract killer?_

All he got was the voicemail on Alistair’s phone, and that just would not do. He was once again displeased. That was unacceptable.

He continued calling at intervals for the entire day with the same results, until even the mailbox refused to accept any more calls. Of course he wasn’t stupid enough to leave any messages that could be accessed, and he’d had a system set up at the house so his calls could not be tracked, even if someone managed to record the conversations.

On his last dial, an unknown voice answered. He was silent for a moment as the voice said, “Hello?”

Max remained silent.

“Hello, this is Detective Krands from the Nassau County Police Department. Is someone there?”

Max hastily hung up. Why was the police answering Alistair’s phone? His mind spun. He dialled Richard again – no answer. Something was wrong.

He rushed to boot up his computer. On the third search he found what he was looking for. It was a small story under breaking news out of Long Island: The body of a man, police had since identified as Alistair Netzger, was found in a vacant property. The small article listed Alistair’s occupation as real estate agent, which would explain why he would possibly have been in the vacant house. The only other information was that investigations were continuing.

What Max didn’t know was what the hell it meant. He sent a quick encrypted text message to Richard and waited for a response. It came three hours later, when Max was near at his wits end.

According to Richard’s information, Netzger had been tortured; he’d been found tied to a chair. A bullet to the head had finished him off, and there were no witnesses, no suspects and no evidence. But Richard told him as far as he knew, the “decorator” was still on track to meet with Max.

Max knew Richard would now dump the phone they’d been communicating on, but unease settled in his stomach. “ _Fuck!_ ” he yelled with feeling.

The knock on his door then, startled him.

“What?”

“Sir?” one of the servants opened the door and looked in. “There is a Henry Steel here to see you. He said you are expecting him about a remodelling job?”

“Yes, yes, show him in?” Max exhaled.

The servant looked like he wanted to ask a question but wisely thought better of it and returned moments later with guest in tow. The man that came through the door was impressively turned out. The eyes were cold, cruel but the way he moved said he was light on his feet and gave an air of dangerous, confident competence.

“See that I’m not disturbed,” he told the servant.

“Yes, sir.” The door clicked shut.

Max surveyed the hit man. He wondered if the man was responsible for the murder on Long Island, but he knew better than to ask. He’d consider what that could mean later.

“Mr. Maximilian, my name is Harris . . .

“I thought it was Henry Steel?” Max asked quickly.

“I never give my real name to anyone but my employer, Mr. Maximilian,” the man said slowly. “Now, shall we get down to business?”

++++++

Adrian Harris got off the plane quickly. It was always easier when there was no luggage to claim. Everything he needed would be in the trunk of his rental car. Mr. Maximilian had seen to that.

He picked up the keys to the parked heavily tinted sedan and slid into the comfortable leather seats. At least he knew “Max” was a man of style. First class flight and now a comfortable, if non-descript vehicle. He had two days to get to Beacon Hills and complete his contract.

There was only one possible challenge he could see, and if Max’s information was correct – and he had no reason to doubt its authenticity – that “challenge” was out of the picture for now.

Besides another client had called just this morning and he needed to be in Venice by the end of the week on the 13th for a job on Valentine’s Day. It was amazing the things some people did to their “loved ones” on the supposed day of love. He chuckled darkly to himself.

He adjusted the seat and reached up to do the same for the rear view mirror. That’s when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as his gaze connected with that of the man in the back seat, his heart lurched.

“Night!” he whispered the codename. It was the last face he’d been expecting to see.

But fear had barely found purchase in his psyche when his brain matter was dribbling down the inside of the windscreen. The double tap had been quick, silent and gave Harris no chance form any kind of defence.

 _He should have known better than to take this job_ , his killer, known in _certain_ _circles_ only by the moniker **_Night_** , thought as he slid out of the back of the vehicle and disappeared.

Police would later become suspicious about the weapons in the trunk and the fact that at the exact moment of the murder all the cameras in the area had gone dark. The last image was 10 minutes before the killing when one of the rental company’s staff drove the tinted, tan sedan to this spot to await pick-up. The staff would prove also to know nothing of the contents in the back or the man at the wheel.

It would also take a few days for them to identify the victim as the elusive killer Adrian Harris, known in darker circles as Mr. H, and they would have to rely on INTERPOL for even that identification. One officer would wonder aloud at the kind of badass who had balls and skills enough to get the drop on a man who had been on the INTERPOL and CIA wanted list for the better part of a decade. No one thereafter would look too hard for his killer.

++++++

A day later Attorney Richard Felton dropped a heavy bag into the trunk of his car. He was sweating profusely, and his $1200 suit was now sticking to his inside shirt. He was a mess, but he didn’t care. He needed to get lost now.

The FBI had long since given up any pretence in shadowing him. Two officers sat in a car watching him avidly. They looked amused. He considered yet again if he should take them up on their offer. At least he’d be safe.

He quickly dismissed the thought. If he was lucky, not even Max himself would be able to find him. He could lose the FBI, with enough luck and a few carefully placed phone calls; he knew that. But as he ran back up the steps of his townhouse and locked the door, he wondered if that was the smartest course with a killer on his trail. He jumped behind the wheel of his car.

The blast reverberated down the street though the damage was localised to only that single car parked about 20 feet from the nearest other undamaged vehicle on the curb.

The Agents sat frozen for a moment. Someone had fucked up because there were always supposed to be eyes on Felton. If someone had missed the planting of such a precise device, then they had bigger problems than they thought.

In 10 minutes the area was swarming with emergency and law enforcement personnel. Felton was already dead.

++++++

In Texas, Max was pacing again. He should have heard from Harris by now. Surely the contract should have been completed a day ago. It had been almost three days since they spoke.

He had stipulated that the Peter Hale was not to see the sun rise on Valentine’s Day. It was almost midday on the 13th now and no communication, but the rules had been set. He had no way of contacting Harris. Communication, although he was unaccustomed to being dictated to, flowed one way – from the contract killer.

 _He needed a strong drink._ Max pressed a button on his library phone. After almost a minute passed with no response, he pressed it again. _Where the hell were his servants?_

He dragged open the door and was met by silence, throughout the house. Usually there was at least a maid or two puttering around. He stepped out and looked around, frowning, then marched in the direction of the kitchen. If they were gathered in there gossiping again, there’d be hell to pay. Several times over the last few months he’d found the servants in clusters in said kitchen, but the conversations always cut off before he got a clear idea of what they were discussing.

Now though, even the kitchen was empty. That’s when the alarms in his head started to go off. He’d just begun to turn when he caught movement in the corner of his eye. It was just enough to allow him to twist when a chair crashed down on his shoulder. He stumbled but didn’t fall. His quick movement meant it hadn’t connected with the back of his head, as he’d been sure his attacker had planned.

He looked up into the eyes of Vernon Boyd, dressed in loose, dark clothing and looking like vengeance. “Well, what have we here?” Max gasped, trying to right himself as pain radiated up his left shoulder. “What did you do to my staff?”

“Nothing. They voluntarily left for the day. You’re less loved than you think.” Boyd tossed the broken pieces of the chair still clutched in his hand aside.

Max scoffed and rushed the black man. He wasn’t expecting the resistance he met, after all he was the bigger of the two. In seconds he was on his back, flipped there by the smaller, but more compact and obviously better trained Vernon Boyd.

Max scrambled back to his feet and attacked again. Every cuff, toss, kick, was met with equally brutal force by Stiles’ bodyguard. His skill in hand-to-hand combat was undeniable. _Where the hell did the man train like this? Who’d trained him?_ Max wondered as yet another attempt landed him a bloodier nose. He was sure it was broken now, along with a few of his ribs and maybe his left arm

“Name your price,” Max ordered, scraping himself off the floor yet again and spitting blood onto the marble tiles, his clothing more red than the white he’d started with. “What do you want? I can give you anything. Whatever your heart desires . . . I can offer you a more lucrative position . . .”

“Work for you?” Boyd laughed at the absurdity of the offer. “All I want is more of your blood on this floor.” His eyes were stuck to Max, evaluating, assessing, and calculating moves as the billionaire begun to edge around the kitchen island.

“Didn’t realise Peter and Stiles paid killers.”

“ _You_ would assume they’d stoop to your tactics. Not everyone is like you, Maximilian. This? This is all me. They don’t even know I’m here,” Boyd shifted, mirroring Max’s less than steady movements.

“Why? How did they inspire such loyalty that you’d kill for them?”

“Oh they deserve it, alright. But this is not just about them.”

“Then what?” he spat another lougie of blood onto the floor.

“All of us whom you were hatching out plans to torment or kill. Netzger told me . . . a lot before he died. But most of all this is about Erica Reyes.”

Now Max was stunned. _He barely even remembered that piece of skirt._ His expression gave away his surprise.

“You should have left her out of it. You should have left Stiles alone when the first time he said no. But you just had to keep going . . . And then you had Netzger put out feelers for a contract killer,” Boyd tutted. “By the way, your hired gun and attorney are also dead.”

Max felt his eyes widen in disbelief. “ ** _You_**?”

“Me. You should have walked away.”

Max knew then. It was either he or this immovable tank of a man. Desperation led him to lunge for the large blade in the knife block on the island and with a scream of rage thrust it in a single motion at the bodyguard. The speed of the move that spun the knife away from the black man and back in Max’s direction, was staggering. He had but a moment to digest the skill of his opponent before the blade sank deep.

The squelch of the knife plunging into Max’s abdomen was a mere snick in the silent kitchen. The loudest sound was Max’s own breathing, followed by a moan as it finally computed that he’d been stabbed, with his own weapon. When he glanced down at the hand clutching the blade, the first edge of raw pain radiated outward and thick, warm, sticky blood spouted over his fingers. He grabbed Boyd’s hand, covering it with his own blood-soaked, aching, broken left hand. He tried desperately to rise above the pain as he felt the life draining from him. If he could just dislodge his opponent’s bulk and maybe even shift the blade . . . _He’d underestimated this man._

_This was no regular cop; no ordinary bodyguard._

“Who are you?” he gasped on a whisper. His mind was attempting to shift through the file he had on this man. Nothing in it gave hint to this. Somewhere, someone had lied about who this man was. “Who are you?” he asked again.

“The only one you should ever have worried about.”

And Boyd twisted the blade and listened as Max’s dying gurgled screams filled his ears.

++++++

“I don’t see why we can’t stay in tonight,” Stiles complained as he pulled up his jeans and buttoned them. “We have the whole house for ourselves. You heard dad this morning, he’s not coming back tonight. Think of all the places we could have really sneaky Valentines sex.”

Peter laughed and kissed his temple _. It was Valentine’s Day dammit. He deserved to be able to woo his beloved._ “Yes, but I’d rather have a secluded picnic with my fiancé, and ravish him under moonlight.”

Stiles sighed as if put upon, but he was secretly thrilled at the thought of sex under the stars in his hometown. Peter knew he loved the moonlight and the way it seemed to wash the Beacon Hills preserve in a supernatural glow. And that was right where they were headed – to the lake.

“Ok, you win. Let’s get the sexy times underway before I declare you the worst fiancé ever.”

Peter laughed again and the sound delighted Stiles. “That, my love, will never happen.”

“Where’s the food?” Stiles asked as they climbed into the back of the jeep, two of Boyd’s security in the front seats.

“Back there; packed while you were taking a year in the shower,” Peter teased.

“Hey, as I recall someone came into said shower and got me all ‘dirty’ again after I was half done.”

Peter grinned as they pulled out of the driveway.

++++++

“It’s done,” Boyd said into the phone.

“Clean?”

“Yes, but I need you to get rid of everything else.”

“Already on it, buddy. Don’t worry, there won’t be anything to link back to you or your boys. Are you ok?”

“A few bruises. Nothing that won’t heal. Thank you for this, Chris,” Boyd said.

“Anytime, buddy. You know, **_Night_** , we could still use your skills back in the unit.”

Boyd chuckled and his ribs protested a bit. He thought maybe he’d bruised one. That son of a bitch packed quite a punch. “I’m done, commander. Out. This is the last of it. I’m settling down now.”

“I’m still surprised Harris took that damn job. What the hell was he thinking? He had to know you’d come after Maximilian and anyone associated with him after word of the hit got out,” his friend and former command leader said.

“He was always a greedy son of a bitch.”

“You know, you’re the only ex-Navy Seal I know who quits the most elite of elite units to join a parochial police force and then, to add insult to injury, becomes a bodyguard for the rich and famous. Most self-respecting guys at least go into contract work.”

“I hate contract work, you know that. I told you guys I was done when I left. I meant it. I owe you,” he shifted and held his breath. _Yup, definitely a bruised rib._

“No, man. You saved my ass and that of our unit more times than I can ever repay. We’ll still owe you even after this. I’ll let you know if there’s any more movement on any of the investigations.”

“Thanks. If any of the boys ever decide to get out of the game, tell ‘em come find me. I could use some good talent to expand the business.”

Chris chuckled this time. “Whatever man. I want to meet this girl of yours sometime. She must be something special.”

“She is!” He hung up.

++++++

They parked and Peter lifted a basket out of the back, while the two guards took stock of their surroundings.

“Need help?”

“Nah, I’ve got this. Come on.” Peter held out a hand and Stiles twined their fingers together as they began the trek to the spot in the preserve.

“What’s that?” Stiles pointed after about seven minutes of walking. He gestured ahead, ducking to peek as something in the distance caught his gaze.

“You’ll see.”

As they got closer it became poignantly clear that this was no ordinary picnic. There were lights strung through trees and in the clearing ahead, beside the lake they had decided on for the picnic, Stiles could see a white structure, covered in flowers and fairy lights. His hand slid from Peter’s as he stepped closer to the clearing that was teeming with formally dressed people and glowing under lights.

Stiles’ knees wobbled. “Peter?”

He swung around to find his fiancé on bended knee.

“I never really got to do this the right way . . .”

Tears pooled in Stiles’ eyes. “Peter . . .?”

“I love you. All our family, friends, everyone important in our lives are here tonight. So will you, Miloslaw Stilinski, marry me here, tonight in front of these witnesses?”

Stiles could only nod. His throat had closed up and only a sob echoed as he threw himself at Peter.

Peter couldn’t stop grinning like the happy fool he was. “Happy Valentine’s, love.”

++++++

Lydia, Erica and Laura took over, ushering the two into separate tents set up nearby for this very purpose.

Peter slid into a smooth navy blue creation from his customary tailor and Stiles into a charcoal grey with blue dress shirt that perfectly matched the colour of Peter’s eyes. Both suits fit perfectly.

Standing before the priest, hands clasped together and ready to deliver his vows, Stiles looked into cerulean eyes and began to cry. “I just can’t believe you pulled this together and I had no idea.”

“Well everyone helped,” he smiled, wiping Stiles’ tears with a hastily provided hanky from Laura.

“Sooooo not the point. Do you know I wanted to be the one to propose to you?”

Peter was shocked for a moment. He’d never known that.

“When you popped that question last year, I’d been thinking, ‘give him six more months and he’ll be more in a frame of mind for it’. So I was prepared to wait. Then you had to go and ask and then our lives turned into a horror movie with this whole thing with that psycho and I was scared I would lose you before I got to marry you. I would not have blamed you if you’d walked away. But you stuck it out, and kept sticking right by me.

“All those times that I fell apart, I had you to lean on. I don’t even know if you understand how much that means to me. I love you, Peter. I’ve been in love with you so long now I can barely remember a time when I didn’t love you. And the fact that I get to wake up next to you, go to sleep with you, have amazing, satisfying sex with you . . .” The guest started moaning in jest, and he snuffled out an evil giggle, “I couldn’t want for more. And I’ll be proud to wear your ring until they bury us side by side.”

Peter tilted his head up to the sky, eyes fixed into the glow in the trees above as he blew out a rough breath and tried to calm his heart, blinking rapidly to force back the tears in his eyes. He was going to do this without a red blotchy face if he could.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Peter laughed when he could breathe without feeling choked up. “I don’t even really know how we got here. I never had any plans of settling down or getting married. After my sister died, I just wanted to look after my family; to do right by Laura and Derek. Then you came along and showed me there could be so much more to life than that. Made me want so much more out of life than that.

“And if I wasn’t totally in love with you before, these past couple months would have shoved me there. I can’t think of anyone who would have stood by me the way you did. Through all of it. We’ve had some crazy fights, some angry words, but what I love most about us is the quiet times together – the fact that we’ve made a vow never to go to bed angry; never to let disagreements fester, no matter what may have caused them; and to always put our family first.

“You brought all of us together in ways I didn’t know I needed until you, and I will happily go to my grave if I know you’re there beside me. I want to love you like you deserve. I want to argue over houses with you; fill that nursery you have already painted in your mind with the babies I know you go absolutely ga-ga over, even though you always hide the baby catalogues in your underwear drawer. I’m the one who’s lucky here and I promise never to take that for granted as long as I live, and nothing and no one will separate us. I love you!”

There was not a single dry eye in the circle. When the preacher declared them married, Peter dragged Stiles to him and devoured his husband in their first kiss. Stiles was equally as voracious in welcoming his new husband.

Guests came forward to congratulate them – the circle of about 30 carefully selected guests, all happy to see the occasion. They stood together hand in hand, greeting their guests before the ushers led them off to an extended table to seat all 30 people.

The meal was scrumptious and the conversation light and celebratory. By the time they got around to the dancing, Stiles felt like he was full to overflowing with happy. Not even fleeting thoughts of Asher Maximilian and what the demon might be planning for them could dampen his mood.

On a raised platform, arms around each other, Peter and Stiles swayed to the live string band, and shared kisses long after the other guests had moved off to the side to rest weary legs, or had shed painful shoes.

Stiles looked over at his dad who seemed relaxed in a conversation with Melissa, Allison and Scott who was standing near with a glass in his hand, nodding along with whatever the topic was. Just then his dad’s phone seemed to buzz in his pockets and he excused himself to take the call.

John returned about 10 minutes later and across the clearing his eyes met Boyd’s and held. If John was a little subdued and kept glancing at the bodyguard thereafter, only Boyd noticed.

Lydia was a vision in her emerald green gown, laughing at something Laura and Jordan were saying. Derek was wrapped around Kira and looking at Stiles’ friend like she’d been personally responsible for hanging tonight’s moon. Isaac was chatting flirtatiously with Lydia’s mother, and Stiles made a mental note to keep an eye on that development. Lydia would flay him alive if that conversation was headed where it seemed.

Finstock was dancing and laughing with Norman of all people; Danny and Erica were chatting with Hayden, and Boyd was sitting nearby. He’d been sitting a lot all evening and the one time he’d spun Erica around the dance floor, he’d looked at times like he was in pain. Stiles was suspicious, but he let it go, for tonight.

“Can we make a toast?” Stiles asked suddenly, moved to do something more to mark the night.

Peter signalled to a server and grabbed two glasses, asking the server if she could make sure everyone had a drink. He kissed Stiles’ temple and went off to ask the band to pause for a moment.

When the music trailed off, everyone looked around.

“Hey, everyone, can I have your attention? Can everybody grab a glass?” He waited for a few moments.

“I just wanted to say thanks, to everyone who’s made tonight special for Peter and me . . . for _my husband_ and me,” he grinned stupidly, as everyone cheered loudly. When they quieted, he continued, “I know these past months haven’t been easy for most of you and I just want to say we appreciate the support, the love, the friendships and most of all you, our family. Thank you.”

Glasses sparkled under the white lights and the band kicked up once more as people moved back onto the dance floor. They would all later pose for a Twitter group selfie – Stiles’ idea of an announcement to his fans.

++++++

Later that night, as Peter dragged yet another orgasm out of his breathless husband and they both collapsed onto the bed in this father’s house – minus said father who elected to stay at Melissa’s – he pressed another kiss to Stiles’ shoulder as he hugged him close.

“You ok?”

“You mean after you almost killed me just now?” Stiles puffed out a laugh. “I’m wonderful, _husband_. Never better.”

They went to sleep cuddled together.

++++++

John, Boyd and Erica were sitting around cups of coffee in the kitchen next morning when Peter and Stiles stumbled downstairs dressed for the planned big brunch.

“Guys, come sit a moment,” John called.

Peter paused, hand on Stiles’ lower back. “What’s up, John.”

“I think we need to have a chat, about the call I got last night.”

Stiles frowned. “I thought you said it was nothing?” He’d asked after the ceremony.

“I didn’t want to ruin your wedding night,” John sighed.

“So what’s happened, John?” Peter pulled out a chair for Stiles and then sat next to him, never letting go of his hand.

“Asher Maximilian’s lawyer has been killed.”

“What?” Stiles eyes were wide.

“How?” Peter asked almost simultaneously.

“His car exploded a few days ago. Police think it was Maximilian’s doing, that they were getting too close to being able to flip the attorney as state’s evidence, and Maximilian somehow found out.”

“Jeez,” Stiles trembled and deflated a bit, his empty stomach beginning to churn.

Erica clenched Boyd’s hand. The night before he’d told her why he had really been absent for that few days after their getaway. She’d cried, hopefully for the last time over Asher Maximilian, but this time in relief.

“If he did that to his own attorney . . .,” Stiles turned and looked at Peter, who folded him in.

“Asher Maximilian is not going to be a problem,” Boyd said finally.

John looked at him silently.

“How can you say that? You know what he’s capable of.” Stiles’ voice shook.

“He won’t hurt you, because he’s dead.”

Silence dropped on the Stilinski house like a bomb.

“What did you do?” Stiles whispered.

Boyd looked straight at him. “What I had to.”

Stiles looked to his dad who was suspiciously quiet about this.

“There was a hit out on Peter, and he was putting in motion other actions against all of us. He wouldn’t have stopped.”

“Will you be arrested?” Peter asked finally.

“There won’t be a trail. As far as anyone knows, Asher Maximilian is still a wanted man, and he will remain so indefinitely. The only people that know what happened to him are in this room, along with one person that helped me track him.”

“Are you sure,” Stiles asked nervously.

Boyd looked him in the eyes before responding. “Remember that conversation we had back when you hired me. The one where you said I didn’t move like a cop, but that I reminded you of your dad when he was hunting, because of his ranger training?”

“Yeah . . . you said you were older than you looked and you’d worked private security before you became a cop.”

“I was a Navy Seal, Stiles, and that’s all I’m allowed to say.”

Stiles’ jaws fell open. “Holy shit! Exactly how old are you?”

Boyd smiled, “Old enough . . . I couldn’t allow what he did or was planning to continue. The persons involved in following through on his threats, you also no longer have to worry about. Enjoy your honeymoon, Stiles. I’m not going anywhere and none of this will come back to you.”

“How are you, though. You’ve been favouring your right side for the last day or so,” Peter asked, concern in his voice.

“I’ll heal.”

Peter exhaled, stepped forward and held out a hand to Boyd. “Thank you, Vern.”

Boyd grimaced and it had nothing to do with the pain in his side. “I thought we agreed not to shorten my name,” he said dryly, knowing Peter had done it purposely.

Stiles chuckled, recovering from his earlier shock and trying to hug the life out of his friend. Boyd smiled but grimaced a bit at the twinge in his ribs. Over Stiles’ head, John nodded his gratitude. Erica didn’t let go of his hand.

“You’re all very welcome. We’re family now. Family looks after its own.”

They would decide on a version of events to tell the others, but later.

++++++

The family gathered together at the local diner later for brunch, Peter having rented the place out until just after midday. Stiles and Peter; Lydia; Boyd and Erica; Laura and Jordan; Danny; Derek and Kira; Scott and Allison; Isaac; Melissa; and John, sat around with laden plates chatting.

“Who the hell honeymoons in Beacon Hills anyway?” Scott asked teasing. “I swear, you two do everything ass backwards. Everyone in Beacon Hills tries to get out of the damn county – no offense, Sheriff.”

“None taken, Scott.” John said, sipping his Stiles-stipulated natural juice. He’d rather have a beer.

Derek laughed, fingers brushing up against Kira’s, who was sitting near enough that he could feel her warmth.

Stiles clung to Peter, swooped in and stole a kiss from his position on Peter’s lap. “Don’t mind them babe. That’s just the jealousy talking.”

The laughter and teasing picked up and the rest of the morning continued in that fashion.

All that was missing now was the patter of small feet and Stiles had a few ideas about that.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual leave me your thoughts and thank you so much for being a part of this journey! Bless!


End file.
